The Senses
by elenwyn
Summary: She fills his senses every day, surrounds him, suffocates him. Peter can't escape, nor does he want to. Paire one-shot. INCEST.


**A.N: **This is written for pairechallenge's newest entry, 'Feel', on LiveJournal. I wrote it to _Touch Me_, from the musical _Spring Awakening_, so it's a little different than my usual style of writing, but I like it. Reviews would be appreciated, enjoy!

**Warnings/Spoilers: **No spoilers for S4. **INCEST and sexual situations between uncle/niece. **If you don't like that, don't read it. Thanks.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Heroes, sadly.

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_'Touch me...just like that...'_

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_**S**__ee_

Even if he closes his eyes, her image is still there, burnt into his retina. Golden hair, green eyes, tanned skin, slender legs; he can see it all, almost reach out to grasp it.

She's sitting in the lounge reading a book, fingers lingering on the edge of the page. He watches her eyes skim the text, sees her thumb slowly bend the corner over before turning it completely, heels kicking into the bottom of the sofa.

Her hair is down and soft against her shoulders, stopping just to cover the tips of her sweater, hiding the rest of her skin from his eyes. Her lips are pink and open slightly; tongue darting out to wet them when they become parched. He feels as if he should know her body intimately, has studied the curves of it so many times.

They say love makes you blind. Perhaps that's true; he is fast becoming blind to the blood that binds them together, finds it harder to see the gap between right and wrong.

All he sees these days is her.

_**H**__ear_

Her laughter rings out at a party and his ears immediately catch it, no matter how far away he is. He never thought he'd make cliché comparisons but her laughter _does_ sound like the tinkling of bells, is the sunshine that brightens his day. It _does_ immediately make him feel happier just to hear it.

The tone of her voice can tell him whether she is happy, sad, angry, worried, lonely. He knows that when she is angry, she hardly ever shouts; her voice drops to a low tempo, all gritted teeth and emphasised words. When she misses home, she forgets the lessons his mother has given her and slips back into the soft, Texan drawl she used to have.

When she speaks to him through his mind, her voice is a tiny whisper, but it can drown out all other thoughts running through his head in an instant.

And when he dreams of her, that whisper turns into something more sensual. Words drip from her lips that make him ache with wanting, only to wake up and find himself clutching not at her, but at the sheets of his bed.

_**S**__mell_

She buys a new perfume and the scent ensnares him, stops his heart every time it wafts in front of his nose. It's called _Lolita Lempicka_, and the meaning of the words isn't lost on him.

After staying over at his apartment one night, he uses the bathroom after her to find the smell of her shampoo still lingering in the air. He tries not to imagine her in the shower, massaging her scalp with her fingers. Breathes it in and runs the water cold, stays in for longer than he should.

_**T**__aste_

In his dreams, she is delectable. He cannot get enough of her; grasps at her arms, drowns in her lips like a man starved of food and drink. Every inch of her tastes so sweet, so succulent.

He sees her eating an apple and imagines himself kissing her, letting the juices on her tongue mingle with his. His fingers itch with the desire to make it so, but her eyes discover he is there and he relents.

He knows though, if he ever got to taste her, she would be his ambrosia. He would never want for anything again.

_**T**__ouch_

He revels in the smallest of touches between them. The brush of her hand against his elbow, the wisp of her hair in his face as she turns away, the accidental tread of her toes on his.

The urge to feel his skin on hers gets stronger every day; dreams no longer enough to keep him satisfied. Damn morality, damn all that is good and true. He will never be fully alive until all of his senses have revelled in the beauty of her, partaken in that sinful act in which neither of them will be able to turn back from.

He longs to feel, to touch, caress, hold. To watch as she throws her head back in ecstasy, taste the flavour of her skin, smell that scent that is so undeniably hers…hear words of love on her lips meant for him and only him.

She is his obsession, his sin; an object not just of lust but of love. If he waits, his dreams will be reality. If he perseveres, she will be in his arms.

All he has to do is wait for her to succumb to it too. He's seen the way she shivers at their closeness, how their eyes barely meet; hears the whispered pleas of _'touch me' _that run through her head when she thinks no-one is listening.

Until then, he will let her overwhelm his senses. He will only touch her in his dreams.


End file.
